


All Things Must End

by orphan_account



Series: at your side, i feel like a ghost [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton Being an Asshole, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Crush, Background Relationships, Bad Decisions, Bad Parenting, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Bonding, Complicated Relationships, Crushes, Delusions, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exploration, Family Bonding, Family Fluff, Family Issues, Family Secrets, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Frustration, Gay John Laurens, Gen, Ghost John Laurens, Guardian Angels, Hallucinations, Hamilton References, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, Hurt, Hurt Alexander Hamilton, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Imprisonment, Independence, Isolation, Mental Anguish, Mental Disintegration, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Nothing serious, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overprotective, Past Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, Philip Hamilton Lives, Platonic Relationships, Protectiveness, Psychosis, Rating May Change, References to Depression, Sad and Happy, Secret Crush, Self-Destruction, Self-Discovery, Self-Indulgent, Slow Build, Tags Are Hard, Tags Contain Spoilers, Tags May Change, Teen Crush, Unrequited Crush, Wrongful Imprisonment, alexander and eliza are doing their best, but still fucking up immensely, john just wants philip to be happy, other characters introduced later, philip is crushing on john in case ppl needed that spelled out for them, so many crush tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-12 02:55:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15330189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Seventeen years. Seventeen years he’s spent locked away, out of the public eye, shut behind his bedroom door. He’s spent too long staring at the same walls, the same pictures, the same belongings.Seventeen years he’s spent contenting himself to a life of isolation, his only company being his family and the ghost behind his imprisonment.But, like all things, everything must come to an end—and Philip is tired of being a prisoner.





	All Things Must End

**Author's Note:**

> ch. 1 song/lyrics, for those who are curious: http://www.contemplator.com/scotland/seventn.html
> 
> haven't written a longfic in a while! dunno how often it'll update but i'm excited for it nonetheless. let me know what you think!

Get up. Get dressed. Tidy room. Say hello to family. Eat. Find something to do. Do schooling. Find something to do. Eat. Find something to do. Get ready for bed. Sleep.

Philip’s life revolves around this schedule, has for all his life, playing on a constant loop. He learns it’s better not to stress over it, going through the motions, sometimes on auto-pilot, sometimes so miserably aware of his surroundings his stomach does flips. His world stands still, starting and ending with his room—every day bringing more of the same. Always static.

“Hey.”

Well, for the most part, anyway.

A voice in his ear wakes him up, Philip blinking his eyes open. A thick darkness obscures his surroundings; night sky peering through his window and sinking into every object in his room. He can hear the faint chirping of crickets outside, singing their night-song late into the night while stars shine overhead.

Philip squints, looking around his dim-lit room, hair tangled and eyes full of sleep. Finally, after finding nothing out of the ordinary, he rolls back around, pulls his covers over his shoulders—

“Hey, Phil.”

He whips around, hand lifted, curled into a fist. “Who’s there?” he whispers, voice hoarse and riddled with annoyance. “I swear, if it’s you, Angie, I’ll—”

_Fwip!_

A candle at his bedside flickers on, and there stands John, face displaying a shit-eating grin. His hair pulled back, his bloodied clothes fading from the waist-down, he stands at attention, eyes glowing with mischief.

Philip lowers his arm at the sight of his friend, sitting up. He pulls his knees to his chest, eyebrows furrowed slightly as he looks his friend up and down, up and down. “…John?” he asks, sleep still clouding his brain. “What are you doing? It’s the middle of the night—”

John brings a finger to his lips, smile stretching from ear to ear.

Philip snaps his mouth shut, eyes narrowing. He sighs, wrapping his arms over his legs, watching his friend with enough impatience and annoyance most would crumble under his gaze.

John, however, brightens when the younger man meets his eyes, standing up taller. He clears his throat, running a hand through his hair, before he breaks into song.

Philip’s jaw drops.

_As I walked out one May morning_

_One May morning so early_

_I overtook a handsome maid_

_Just as the sun was rising_

Philip’s thoughts come to a halt. John’s voice has a softer touch to it, singing quietly enough the teen’s eyelids droop and his muscles relax, the dead soldier bouncing on his heels as the words spill from his mouth.

John’s shoulders tense, eyes directed elsewhere, knees bending slightly as he searches his brain for the song’s lyrics. Philip catches a glimpse of nerves under his friend’s carefree façade, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips but the boy refusing to smile.

For now.

_Her shoes were bright_

_Her stockings white_

_Her buckles shone like silver_

_She had a black and roving eye_

_And her hair hung down her shoulder_

_How old are you? My fair pretty maid_

_How old are you my honey_

_She answered me right cheerfully_

_I'm seventeen come Sunday_

Philip’s face flushes. Ah—so _that’s_ why he’s doing this. Truly, the boy had forgotten the day, the week—let alone the date. With how rigid his days have become, a day like his birthday feels unimportant, unnecessary. Just another day of the year.

But of course, _John_ wouldn’t have forgotten his birthday, wouldn’t have left it be. He should’ve expected something like this, given the soldier’s knack for doing anything just to see him smile, but waking the boy in the middle of the night to sing to him has never crossed either of their minds.

Singing to him _at all_ has never happened before, something the teen has thought of, though Philip realizes he wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of this becoming a more common occurrence.

_I went down to her mammy's house_

_The moon was shining clearly_

_I sang beneath her window pane_

_Your soldier loves you dearly_

John’s voice breaks a little, but he doesn’t falter. He holds out a hand for the boy to take, Philip’s face breaking out in a smile—the one he’s been trying to hold back all this time—as he takes it. John pulls him to his feet and spins him, glowing brighter, pausing his song to laugh.

Philip can’t help but laugh with him. They go back and forth, spinning and twirling, the candlelight illuminating their frames. He has to admit, John knows how to let go and make a good time out of any situation—even if it _is_ the middle of the night.

They both yelp when the ghost almost drops him—not on purpose, of course. His form flickers, fear flickering like a flame across his face, the soldier grabbing Philip by his wrists to keep him from toppling over.

The teen finds sturdy footing, sobering up a little. He gives John a knowing smirk. “’Fraid of dropping the handsome maid?” he teases.

John’s face reddens. He lets the boy go, who sits back down on his bed with a chuckle. “Sh-Shut up,” he mutters.

“I will if you finish the song.”

Laurens shoots him a glare at that, though his smile reemerges, the tension in his shoulders melting away. He clears his throat, stands up straight, picking up where he left off.

_Oh solider won’t you marry me?_

_For now’s your time or never_

_For if you do not marry me_

_My heart is broke forever_

Philip leans back, pressing himself against the wall, legs pulled up to his chest and arms in his lap. His eyelids drooping, he sings the last part of the song with John, voice fading in and out with how tired he is. John bites back a laugh at the sight, not wanting to make the other self-conscious.

_And now she is the soldier's wife_

_And sails across the brine-o_

_The drum and fife is her delight_

_And a merry man in mine, oh!_

Philip smiles, his eyes closed. “You have a nice singing voice,” he tells him.

John snorts. He sits down next to the younger man, hands gripping the edge of the mattress. “I can say the same about you,” he says. “Though that’s probably due to genes. Elizabeth’s got a damn good set of vocal chords.”

The teen nods, “I know. She used to sing to me when I was little.”

Laurens’ body becomes more translucent than usual. “Heh—yeah. I know.”

A pause. Philip hums under his breath, replaying the song in his mind, fingers tapping on his stomach. He gets lost in thought, expression growing distant.

John watches him, amusement and cheerfulness draining from his face. He frowns, train of thought spiraling as he takes in the boy’s exhausted eyes, frazzled hair, pale skin. It’s not fair, he thinks, the situation his friend is in. Philip never hurt a soul; hasn’t ever attempted, except for the attempt on his own life a few years ago—but even then, John was there to catch him before he fell, and they both know now that such a thing won’t happen again. The boy has so much potential, so much personal drive and energy, just like his father did when they were young.

And yet here he is, locked away from the world, one John knows Philip can improve, can be a part of, only to be miserable and losing himself in the grey.

An ache settles deep within Laurens’ chest.

It hurts him, knowing that the reason Philip’s life has come to a halt is because of his old friend, someone he knows doesn’t mean any harm. Alexander never _could_ think things through, always acting before asking questions. He finds a solution and runs with it, concerning himself more with his legacy than with morale, dealing with the consequences later—sometimes avoiding those, too, with quick-handed ideas.

It’s obvious now that his friend’s actions are hurting someone very dear to them both, whether Alexander thinks it’s helping Philip or not. Even if those actions are with the best intentions.

And, though he hates to speak negatively of the woman, Eliza has made her own mistakes when it comes to tending to the boy, too.

He digs his nails into his palms, hands balled up into fists. If only he wasn’t dead. If only he could be here, _alive_ , able to help. He knows, deep down, it wouldn’t make a difference; that if he _was_ alive, the Hamiltons would’ve hid Philip from him like they do with everyone else. Most don’t have a clue that the family has an eldest son, nor the fact that the boy’s been deemed mentally unfit—“psychotic” according to the doctors and “spiritually afflicted” if you ask a priest.

He’s seen it for the past seventeen years and he doubts that would change just because he was alive.

Or maybe Philip would’ve been spared this fate, if John was alive. After all, isn’t he to blame for this? Who is it that caused Philip to start talking to the air, to point out things that nobody else could see, to mention a voice that isn’t present in the world of the living?  

Isn’t he the cause for all of Philip’s _other_ problems that’ve emerged over the years?

John looks over to the younger man again, the ache in his chest spreading. A bitter taste rests in his mouth, the wound in his side pulsing with a dull, piercing pain. Guilt settles on his shoulders, holding him in a vice grip.

He just wants what’s best for the teen. Something way better than this.

He just wishes he could think of a way to help, something even someone in his predicament could work with. Nothing he’s tried so far has worked, but—

“Thank you.”

John blinks, mind going blank. He turns to Philip, the boy giving him a tired smile. “What?” he asks.

“I said thank you, you dork.” Philip tucks his hair behind his ear, trying to keep it out of his face. He sighs. “You’re always trying so hard to make things better when everyone else has given up, and—I dunno, it’s nice. Even though I’m tired as shit right now—”

“Language,” John scolds, though there’s a playful tone to his words, a small tug at his lips.

Philip rolls his eyes. “Even though I’m _dead tired_ , I think this is one of the best things that’s ever happened on my birthday. And that’s saying a lot, considering I used to think you playing peek-a-boo with me was, like, the funniest thing on the planet.”

“You thought that game was fairer than hide-and-seek,” John says, offense written on his face.

“You can _literally_ disappear!”

“Unimportant. Continue.”

Philip huffs. He looks down to his hands, gaze clouding over with an emotion John can’t quite identify. “Look, I’m—I just want to say that—I think you should—oh, mercy on my _soul_.” He breaks off into a groan, running a hand down his face. He hesitates. “…I—I’m just saying, you’re a really great guy, John. You’re, like, my whole world. Nothing else changes, and everyone out _there_ —” he gestures towards his bedroom door—“thinks I’ve lost it. Somedays I even think they’re right, but—”

“They’re not,” John butts in, his voice harsher than he meant it. At Philip’s surprised look, he softens, slumping his shoulders. “I didn’t mean—you’re not crazy, Phil. That’s like saying I’m not real, and we both know I am. It doesn’t matter what they think of me because, with you being the exception here, I can’t talk to anyone.”

Philip chuckles. “That’s not very reassuring,” he says.

“Considering your _father_ —” John snarls the word, a pain hitting him in the chest at the thought that he once thought of Alexander affectionately, thought of him with enough warmth it got him through the war, only for it now to bring nothing but disgust and rage—“acts like me being around is a the worst thing to ever happen to him, and your mother won’t so much as mention me without making sure he’s not around, I’d say that’s reassuring enough that you’re not bonkers.”

Another chuckle, though this one is empty, cold. “That’s just grief,” he points out. “Pops’s always touchy when it comes to people he cares about being dead…or with me.” His smile falls. “…and besides, even if _you’re_ real, that doesn’t explain everything else.”

John loses his voice.

“…Look,” Philip shakes his head, slapping a hand to his face to clear it, “I’m just saying, you’re really important to me, real or not. I don’t think I’d be here right now if it weren’t for you, and—and I don’t think I could _keep_ going if it weren’t for you. I mean, who’s to say things would be different if you weren’t here? Things might’ve been like this regardless, and…and…” his voice breaks. “…I can’t imagine a world where you’re not in it.”

John’s breath would’ve caught in his throat if he were alive. His eyes widen, dread and anger and a soul-crushing anguish clutching his chest and squeezing, growing stiff. “…I’m not going anywhere,” he tells him after a while, gaze fixed onto the opposing wall. His smile returns, faint and pained, arms tightening around his middle. “I wouldn’t do that to you. You mean too much to me…well, _that_ , and I don’t think I could forgive myself if I left you in a place like this.”

Philip sniffs. John gets a glimpse of tears in the boy’s eyes, spotting them from the corner of his eye. “Good! Otherwise I’d have to die just to drag your ass back here!”

John snickers, shaking his head. “Yeah, I wouldn’t recommend that. Dying’s not a fun feeling.”

“Neither’s being alone.”

Oh. _Oh_.

Oh, no.

John swallows, hanging his head, “Y—Yeah. I’m sure it’s not.”

“It’s not.” Another pause. Philip shifts, climbing onto his feet. He stretches with a yawn, stifling it with his hand. “I should—I should probably get a kickstart on today.”

“Now?” John glances out the window. “A bit early, don’t you think?”

“You’re the one that woke me up.”

“Well, yeah, but I didn’t expect you to _stay_ up.”

Philip has a strange smile on his face as he says, “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before serenading me on my birthday.”

John flinches. “I wasn’t serenading you!” he all but shouts. He floats, rising to hover over the boy’s shoulder, arms still crossed over his chest. “I was just—it wasn’t—I—”

Philip laughs. “Wow, Pops wasn’t kidding,” he says between giggles. “You really _are_ easy to rile up.”

John’s face turns red again, “I am _not_ easy!”

“Who said you were?” The teen raises an eyebrow.

“I—never mind.”

Philip smiles, shaking his head. He moves to his dresser, opening the top drawer and pulling out his clothes for the day.

John falls silent, watching the boy’s expression. He frowns when he sees a shadow pass over the teen’s face, a resignation already written into his features as the knowledge of what the day will bring weighs down on his shoulders. He thinks about saying something, of trying to brighten the mood again, but nothing comes to mind, not a sound escapes him.

So, turning away from Philip, John phases through the bedroom door, leaving him to get dressed.

He can only hope that today goes well—if not for his sake, then for Philip’s.

And, Lord knows, he’ll do anything if it means Philip will be happy.


End file.
